Sunday, May 17, 2015

the pigeon

It was a thing I'd never seen,
a pigeon standing in a stream.

But as I passed the rushing brook
there he was amidst the waters;
and I could not help but stop and look
as the ripples brushed his under-feathers.

Moments passed as he calmly stood,
moments passed as I stood and thought.
He had lessened the depth with a rock
- was he hurt to choose such a perch?
Or was this some secret of his kind
to, heron-like, hunt where waters run?

Then he took to wing, and was gone,
with me wondering if I'd see the like again.

No comments:

Post a Comment